


Story Fragments

by Cinaed



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Ficlet, Friendship, Gen, Post-Canon Fix-It, Toulon Era, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:29:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets inspired by prompts for the "tell me about a story I haven't written, and I'll write some of the story" meme. </p><p>-The one where Javert accidentally adopts Gavroche post-barricade and is forced to ask Valjean for parenting advice<br/>-The one where Javert and Valjean interact in Toulon during one of Valjean's reading lessons</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Parenting Advice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the anonymous prompt: "the one where javert lives after the barricade and ends up kind of taking gavroche in to care for him but is in way over his head because gavroche is such a little shit and finds himself really angrily and painfully asking valjean for parenting advice."

Javert fixed his gaze upon the floor, studied the varying brown shades in the wood there rather than Valjean’s shifting expression as he muttered, “I actually came here regarding another matter.”

“Oh?” Valjean sounded surprised, but slightly pleased as well. This strange friendship was still too new and tentative; Javert still did not dare to look up and see whatever absurd, warm look Valjean was favoring him with. “And what matter is that?”

“You raised Cosette,” Javert said, and then stopped in dismay as his speech, so carefully thought out, fell out of his head. He waved his hand, frustrated, as Valjean made a puzzled sound of acknowledgment. “Surely you two must have argued now and again.”

“Yes,” said Valjean slowly, “but I do not see—”

“You remember the child at the barricade, surely. That loud-mouthed little gamin who was half-killed. Since his release from the hospital, he has, ah, been staying at my apartment while he recovers.”

“You…took in a child.” There was a certain forced calm tone to Valjean’s voice. When Javert darted a glance at him, Valjean’s mouth was twitching. “I see. And you two have been arguing, I take it?”

“He mocks me at every opportunity and makes constant remarks about his elephant being far more comfortable than my apartment,” said Javert, a trifle irritated by Valjean’s unhelpful amusement. “Every morning I wake up thinking he will have disappeared back on to the streets, but he is still there with a ready insult upon his lips. I thought you might— this is, I have little experience with children, and while I am aware a gamin is a far different manner of child than your Cosette, I thought you might—”

Javert stopped with a frustrated hiss. He waved his hand once more. “I do not know how to talk to the boy, how to convince him to join society rather than merely mock it. I had thought to send him to school, but he does not know his letters and whenever I try to teach him, he gives me a hateful stare like a cat enduring a bath.” He paused, cleared his throat. His next words came somewhat grudgingly. “I thought you might advise me on how to convince the boy to learn to read and write.”

“Advise—” Valjean’s face was turning almost purple, and his voice was strained with mirth. “I would be happy to do so, Javert,” he said a little thickly, clearing his throat, “though I do not know how much help I will be….” He paused then, and a brief shadow darkened his features. When he spoke once more, his tone was almost wistful. “He is ten or twelve, surely? I am afraid that I never had the chance to spend much time with children beside Cosette at that age. And I do not think the children of Montreuil-sur-Mur count. Perhaps it might be better if I spoke to the boy first, learned a little about him?”

Javert considered this, imagined Valjean and Gavroche interacting, the insults the boy might attempt, the unruffled way Valjean would ignore them. A dry smile touched his lips. “If you insist,” he drawled, and leaned back in his chair, mostly satisfied for the moment. “I can bring him here tomorrow morning, if that suits you.”

“We shall all have breakfast together,” Valjean said, and there was that tentative but pleased note in his voice again. “And perhaps he and Cosette will become friends.”

Javert couldn’t stifle a sharp bark of laughter. “Now  _that_  will be interesting to see,” he muttered. He was almost looking forward to the next day.


	2. Reading Maketh a Full Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the school in Toulon, the friars teach the convicts how to read, to write, and to cipher. Naturally, there must be guards to observe the lessons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for an anon on Tumblr who prompted "Do you remember that fic about Javert and Valjean interacting in Toulon?" for the "tell me about a story I haven't written and I'll write you a snippet" meme.

Javert had scoffed silently when he had first learned of the school begun by the Ignorantin friars. There seemed little doubt that the convicts were taking advantage; surely most of the men were there solely for the hour allotted to the lesson each day, a reprise from the usual labors.

He grudgingly allowed that perhaps some  _were_  there to learn. Indeed, the convict most called Jean-le-Cric seemed focused upon the lessons, though he somewhat mitigated this focus by sitting in the back. Still, unlike most of the others, his eyes followed the friars as they taught.

Javert did not know how much got through to the man despite the friars’ best efforts; 24,601’s expression was set in mulish, resentful lines even when he faltered and muttered his way through whatever lines Brother Michel had prompted him to read aloud. 

Still, Javert was certain that the majority of the men sitting through these lessons were there to shirk their other duties. It was almost maddening, for had Javert not learned how to read and write through his own toil, without any helping hand? He had had no friar to help him learn his letters.

During his time assigned to watch the convicts during the lessons and to ensure they did not smuggle anything out, he kept a sharp eye on the convicts. If they were taking up the friars’ times, then Javert would ensure that the convicts learned. From time to time, he reminded men to pay attention to the lesson when it was obvious the man’s attention had wandered.

Every few lessons, the convicts were allowed to read on their own in relative silence for the last fifteen minutes of the hour. The only sounds then would be the rustling of turned pages, the occasional request for help with a word or phrase from one of the convicts, and Brother Michel’s quiet voice helping sound out the troublesome words.

On one such occasion, Javert found his gaze drawn to Jean-le-Cric. The man was reading, a frown fixed upon his face, but he held the book so roughly and incorrectly that it was a wonder the spine was not already broken. Javert darted a glance in Brother Michel’s direction, but the friar was engrossed in helping another man read a particular passage. 

Javert pursed his lips as Jean-le-Cric turned a page. He did not wish to overstep his bounds, but surely Brother Michel would appreciate the preservation of his precious books. Javert stepped forward, closer to 24,601, though not within arm’s reach. “You are holding it too roughly," he said.

Jean-le-Cric did not move for a moment. Then his gaze rose slowly, those dull eyes meeting Javert’s. There was no hint of understanding in his face. “Sir?"

"You are holding the book all wrong. You’ll break its spine," Javert explained. He glanced back towards Brother Michel, but the friar was still helping the same convict. Javert held out his hand.

It took a moment, but Jean-le-Cric at last handed the book over.

"You must hold it like this," Javert explained, opening and holding it correctly. “You see?"  When he looked at Jean-le-Cric, the man’s expression didn’t seem to have changed. Had he understood at all? “If you continue to hold it the old way, you will break the book. These things must handled with care."

Something at last flickered in those eyes and upon that face— Javert would have thought the convict amused, were it not for the bitterness that soured the man’s look. “With care," was repeated in a low, hoarse mutter.

There was nothing in the convict’s tone to imply insolence rather than a request for clarification, and yet Javert caught himself beginning to frown nonetheless. “Yes. The friars are using their own books to teach you. You should treat them gently," he said brusquely, and then closed the book before he handed it back.

Jean-le-Cric lowered his chin in what might have been in acknowledgment, but at least opened the book with an awkward, careful movement, this time holding it correctly. He held the book gently, as though he feared to hurt it as Javert had warned.

It was strange juxtaposition, Javert found himself thinking as he watched, the convict’s hands almost tender where so often they were violent, balled into fists as Javert searched him for contraband or fiercely gripping a tool as he labored in the quarry. At least, he assumed that was how the man’s hands looked as Jean-le-Cric worked. Why would he have cause to study a convict’s hands so closely, except to ensure the man had no weapon?

Jean-le-Cric hunched over the book, flicking slowly through the pages until he presumably found the spot where he had paused. After another few seconds, his lips began to move, silently mouthing the words to himself.

Javert stepped back towards the wall, resuming his position. He watched 24,601 for another moment, to ensure that the man didn’t immediately fall back into poor habits. Then he swept his gaze over the group, satisfied that everyone, for the moment, seemed to be attending to the lesson.


End file.
